We are in a rush,
An eternal race towards loneliness,
We strive to fight and find ways,
To distance the world around us,
The deafening scream from the shadows,
That becomes the white noise of conversation.

We are the melancholy melody of love in hate,
We are the sirens of youth,
Inflicting metaphorical slashes all over our wrist,
In the hope that our own conscience can hear us again,
That we can find those conversations in our heads,
We had lost a long time ago,
In another life or was it to another life?
Are we real? Or a personality to fit in the perception of reality.
So why are we in a rush?